Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan (30 page)

I was thinking I ought to return to work when I heard a group of boys running along the road shouting
, ‘Azadi, Azadi’. Azadi
is the kite that
has been cut from its string by a rival kite and is now flying free. They were chasing after it and as they ran they kicked up a large dust cloud. I followed the boys’ eyes and saw a large blue and yellow kite falling through the air. It was a square kite decorated with stars and a sun
.

I watched the village boys run and shout after the kite, every single one of them desperate to possess it. High in the sky it seemed as if the kite was showing off, enjoying the fact that so many children desired it. They were dashing around in all directions but no one could catch hold of the string that was dangling down. The boys kept saying to one and another, ‘This kite is
chalak
(clever). We don’t know which direction it’s going in next. Bloody kite, why won’t you come down?
’

I laughed at the way the boys were talking to the kite, and the way the kite sailed higher and higher, away from the boys. Quite a large group of boys had gathered by now, watching the kite fly freely through the air. Some tried to follow its every twist and turn, running to the left and then to the right. Others were content to stand and wait. I watched for several minutes. It seemed to me that the kite was dancing like a beautiful bride sought after by so many boys. Her colours were bright, with a small red star on the edge, and orange flames in the two corners to enhance her beauty. A moon-shape of yellow paper was stuck to the top of the kite, and when the wind blew it looked as if the bride was smiling to herself while contemplating which lucky boy she would ultimately bestow her favours upon. I was enjoying the spectacle as much as the children; but I soon realised that I had drifted off and wasted precious time away from my work
.

The boys had kicked up a lot of dirt when they chased the kite. I closed the window to shut out the dust, but the scene I had enjoyed so much was still in my mind and brought a smile to my face. I hadn’t been aware how very tired I was. The sight of those happy children and the excitement that the kite had given them had a profound effect on me
.

Just as I was taking my teapot and cup to the small kitchen I heard someone banging on the front door. It sounded familiar so I rushed to answer it, taking care to put on my headscarf as I did, just in case it was a stranger. (I could not open the door and be seen without a headscarf.)

‘
Who is it?’ I asked as I opened the door. My two girls and two boys had just come home from school. Seeing their faces and knowing they had just returned from studying gave me such a feeling of pleasure and satisfaction – I knew that for every day that they went to school their future got brighter. I quickly made some food and we all sat and ate it around the
desterkhan.
I used to make them hearty and healthy food like vegetable soup. I made sure they ate a proper meal because we all had to work hard and as well as helping me they had to study too. We would eat our soup with fresh bread that I had made early in the morning. After we finished eating, each child knew what duty they were expected to carry out. My two daughters collected the dirty dishes and wiped clear the
desterkhan
while my sons and I began our daily work: kite-making
.

I would start by cutting the large pieces of coloured tissue paper, which were very delicate, whilst my sons concentrated on assembling the sticks to make the kite’s frame and my daughters would focus on the decoration. They were good at the small details: from left-over pieces of paper they would cut shapes – hearts, stars, suns, moons and flames – and stick them on the sides of the kites. My sons were expert at putting together the kites and knowing how to build them so they would fly strong and high. They understood where the string should be attached. I would watch them and be ready to help with the gluing. I didn’t want them to use the glue because it can harm their young hands. Mine have already been damaged but I don’t care because I’ve already had my youth. I want to take care of them now so they can lead a happy life when I’m not there to look after them
.

After a couple of hours of hard work we would put away the kites and materials in a safe place. My sons love to fly kites themselves, so sometimes after our meal I let them go out and play with other boys, but not every day. I remind them how their situation is different to that of other children. My sons and daughters all go to school. They have to do their homework before it gets dark because there’s no electricity and otherwise they cannot see what they’re writing. I let them take turns – while one studies the other makes kites and then they swop
.

This is my happy family, the family of Mahgul and her four children.
What more can an Afghan mother want? I get pleasure from seeing the children in my village get excited playing with the kites that I and my children have made. From our window I can see some boys running after a kite that we have made with our own hands. We are a family of breadwinners. If you were to ask me how we got to this stage my answer would be, ‘Not easily!’ I went through a lot of pain and suffering, starting back in 2001
.

My husband was a taxi-driver, and he used to take passengers on the main highway between Mazar and Pul-e-Khumri. We were poor but had a good enough life because he was hardworking and kind, and God gave us our four wonderful children. My husband had a small house, which had been left to him a long time ago by his parents. He had no other family members so my children and I were everything to him. He sometimes earned extra money at
Nowrooz
(Afghan New Year) and he would be busy taking people to the shrine of Hazrat Ali, the fourth Imam of Islam
.

People would come from other provinces to Pul-e-Khumri and my husband would take the passengers to the shrine in Mazar for prayers. Women, men, boys, girls, elders, everyone wanted to visit Mazar; our city is considered holy because of the shrine and mosque. My husband was soft-hearted and even if it was getting late he would still take passengers who were ill and wanted to pray
.

I used to tell him, ‘Look, you’re getting tired and it’s not safe to drive at night. I get worried when you don’t come home on time. We don’t want you to work any harder. We’re content with what you can provide for us. We would rather have you at home
.’

He would smile at this. ‘You know, Mahgul, I enjoy working hard and taking passengers to the shrine. Going to those holy places gives me energy. And what’s more I can earn extra money for you and our children. I want them to go to school and have books and pens so they can become teachers and doctors and not have to work as a taxi-driver like me. My father didn’t care if I went to school or not because he was a simple man who didn’t understand the value of education, but I do. I can’t read or write – that’s
why I’m just a taxi-driver. Our children have me as their father and you as their mother and they know we will do anything to give them a better future
.’

He held my hand in his and massaged it. ‘I want my children to have all the things I never had. I love you, Mahgul, because you’re such a wonderful wife and mother
.’

I loved the way he used to talk to me. After years of being married to him he became everything to me. The way he gave such love to me and the children was amazing. He had so much energy and enthusiasm for making the family happy. He took so little from us and gave us so much in return. He became my friend, my soul-mate, my everything. On occasions he was even like a sister to me and we would gossip together. He was my support and my teacher in life as well as my husband and lover
.

After a couple of years of marriage my mother complained that I didn’t go and visit them as often as I should. ‘Mother, it’s your mistake I don’t visit very often.’ My mother was shocked and thought she had upset me in some way. She asked what kind of mistake. I smiled. ‘It’s your mistake that you married me to this man I love so much
.’

At this my mother started laughing. I remember how happy my mother was to see me so content with my family. That’s what every mother wishes for her daughter, isn’t it? I would love my own daughters to be as happy in their marriages as I’ve been in mine. I can’t forget what a kind and caring person my husband was from the first time I met him on my wedding day. Every memory of him brings joy to me, except the time when sorrow came to my heart and my world turned black. From that day onwards I have felt incomplete
.

I can recall every detail of that day. I woke up early that morning to find my husband sitting on the mattress and quietly drinking tea. It seemed odd to me. I got up and sat next to him
.

‘
My dear, why didn’t you wake me up? I would have made your tea for you?
’

‘
Mahgul,’ he said softly, ‘why would I wake you? I didn’t want to disturb
you.’ He smiled and joked, ‘You were fast asleep and looked like you were having some sweet dreams
.’

‘
No, I had a frightening dream that woke me up. I didn’t like it at all!
’

He asked me in his kind voice, ‘What was the dream that scared my strong wife? Tell me about it
.’

‘
It was so frightening that I couldn’t move. It felt as if I was frozen on the spot. I dreamt some kind of animal that I’d never seen before was chasing after us. You were trying to save me from this sort of dragon. We were holding hands and trying to escape but it was very windy and that made it harder for us to run. You were holding my hand tightly and pulling me along but the dragon was catching up, and then I felt you let go of my hand. I turned around and there was fire coming out of the dragon’s mouth and it took you away from me. At that point I was so frightened and I tried to shout out. Then I woke up. Oh my God
, toba
(have mercy), it was so horrible! I recited all my
kalemas
(verses from the Quran) but when I saw you sleeping beside me I felt better and went back to sleep
.’

He listened to my dream with such care and attentiveness that I felt a rush of affection. He stared at me like a young lover gazing into his girl-friend’s eyes. I hugged him and he hugged me back tightly
.

‘
Well, I’m not very good at interpreting dreams, but I guess it’s just a dream. What else can I say?
’

I released myself from his embrace. ‘I feel a bit better now that I’ve told you, but I’m still worried
.’

He got up, took his
pakol
(Afghan hat), glanced in the mirror and then told me to follow him to the front door. As he put on his shoes and walked towards the main door of the house he suddenly stopped in his tracks
.

‘
Mahgul, wait a minute
.’

I asked what the matter was but he didn’t reply. He went back into the corridor, slipped off his shoes and went to the room where our children were sleeping. He leant down and kissed all four of them on their foreheads
.

As he got up I told him that he’d kissed the children as if he was never
going to see them again. ‘I know you love them but you’re getting late for work. Hurry up!
’

He approached me, his arms outstretched. ‘Yes, you’re right. I just wanted to kiss them, and now I want to do the same to their mother. You never know when I’ll see you again
.’

And with that he kissed me on the forehead, too, then we walked to the front door together and said goodbye. He went to his taxi which, as usual, was parked in front of our house. As he started the engine we kept looking at each other as if we were not going to see each other ever again. I had this strange feeling – a voice was telling me to stop him leaving – but I ignored it and waved my hand as he left
.

I went back inside and started my daily work. I made breakfast for my children. Only the two older children went to school then. I went to wake them up. The younger ones would wake anyway and enjoy watching their brother and sister get ready for school. We had breakfast all together around the small square
desterkhan.
I looked at their faces and felt frightened. I didn’t know why, but I was filled with a sense of loss. I sipped my tea and tried to calm down
.

‘
God have mercy on me,’ I said to myself as I handed my two children their school bags and waved them off. Then I locked the door behind them and began sweeping clean the rooms and tidying where the children had been sleeping whilst my two youngest ones played in the sunshine in our garden
.

I was just thinking about what to cook for my husband’s dinner that evening when I heard a loud bang at the door. My young son ran towards it but I shouted after him, ‘Wait, my child, I want to open the door. Who can this be?
’

It was a strange time for visitors to be calling because most people are busy mid-morning. As I got nearer to the door I could hear the sound of a woman crying. Before I had reached the door I shouted out, ‘Mother, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?
’

I opened the door to find my mother with her head buried in her
burqa.
She looked up and hugged me
.

‘
Oh my daughter, you’ve become a pot without a top and your children are now so lonely
.’

‘
What are you talking about? Please don’t talk nonsense. What’s the matter?
’

My children ran to me and held on to my legs
.

‘
Mother, please tell me, is Father all right?’ My father was getting old and often in poor health so I thought something must have happened to him. My mother began shouting and I noticed that other family women had followed her – and behind them I saw my father and brother. They were all crying and my children were crying too. I was still too shocked and frightened to know what to do. In the midst of all that crying and shouting, I’d forgotten how to cry
.

My mother sat on the dusty ground and called to my children. ‘Come to me, my children. You’ve lost your father, he’s dead!
’